There is no room for naivité in today’s world. All I can do in light of the barrage of news we receive is to go on preserving and treasuring the world I’ve always known. Indeed, my insular world may last only a moment—so I treasure each moment as a gift from God.

Beyond a series of moments on earth lies an eternity of joy for the Christian believer. Meanwhile my precarious earth moments are filled with prayers, family, friends, a corgi, music, paintbrushes, knitting needles and yarn, spinning wheels, gardens indoors and out, poetry, books/books/books, antiques, junk, never ending batches of soap from our kitchen, and a whole lot more.

A common thread connects the moments: BEAUTY. I know I’m not alone in determining to pursue and celebrate Beauty—and to TREASURE THE MOMENT!

Lest yesterday’s poignant piece leads you to believe that we harbor sadness around here, please think again. I experience the poignancy of change, but always with gladness and appreciation of the moment and season at hand. Each has its beauty and meaning. Each is accessible when we have layers of wool, and I do. Each has its unique message, new every year. And due to God’s faithfulness, each season will return. So I will take you on a photo tour throughout our home, which we dearly love indoors and out. Indoors is especially cozy and inviting.

Above you will see one of my two highly efficient fine spinning wheels on which I produce beautiful yarn for knitting. For 18 years I raised my own spinners’ flock of quality wool sheep: Border Leicester, Cotswold, Romney, Targhee, Corriedale, and Shetland—plus Angora goats for mohair. I still have some of my Shetlands’ gorgeous brown wool. But being a color freak, now I purchase dyed fleece and roving from suppliers of which their are loads—readily accessible online. The green wool in the baskets pictured here is Merino—the world’s softest fiber with the exception of silk which I also order and spin.

In this spinning wheel scene you can see some of our eastern exposure winter garden. Here the fussy, shade lovers reside. When we moved to Nashotah in 2009, it didn’t take long for us to realize that our violets did not enjoy our new home as much we did. Here we have natural gas heat, and alas there is a heat duct blowing down over both of our winter gardens.

The succulents featured in the next photo do not mind hot dry air a bit. But African violets are really jungle plants. They thrive on the moist ground in the humid section filled with tropical trees and lush undergrowth in Milwaukee’s Mitchell Park Horticultural Domes. Now, after 5 years of prematurely loosing violets, I have installed them in Wardian cases (one of which is visible behind the wheel)—attractive little greenhouses patterned after an invention by a 19th century English doctor (Dr. Ward) who built the house-like glassed in shelters to protect his plants in his London home.

Above is a glimpse of our southern facing indoor garden replete with succulents. These plants, along with my Louis L’Amour novels provide a western fix for the Colorado and New Mexico aspect of my life.

Back to the fiber thread (pardon the pun), here are some recent renderings from my yarn baskets and knitting needles. (Unlike many folks, I knit all through the summer, even outside on the warmest days. That is called “being a knit wit”.)

On the left is a shrug in process, knitted with my handspun yarn. Next is a finished fringed shawl, also in handspun. The almost center garment is a cape. I make loads of these, because they are so much fun! As well as adding buttons for decoration, I include buttons and button holes so that the garment will stay on the shoulders with comfort. On the right is a HUGE poncho, probably good down to 20 degrees above zero over a big wool sweater. The cape and poncho are made from commercial woolen yarns with a few funky synthetics thrown in for fun.

And saponifying—that is, soap making—another year round delight. These bars, made just yesterday, look good enough to eat. But I wouldn’t advise that!

And art making, also enjoyed year around but really beefed up on winter nights!

And winter tea parties. Of course I continue my beloved iced tea all year (I didn’t think I had any Southern blood in me, but that’s what friends below the Mason Dixon line do). However, when company comes, it’s hot tea and a chance to show off my English tea pots. Guests may pick their pot, and cup and saucer of which there are MANY.

Finally, here is a shot from last year. It’s coming! I’m thankful for all of the above, especially for my family and corgi, and of course for books bending multi shelves and stacked like leaning towers all over the home!

When the sun shines again (and it will) I’ll try to get some shots of glorious color. That’s coming too—hopefully before the above pristine stuff!

My philosophical mother left me with many quotes on which to ponder, one of them being:“It takes all kinds of people to make a world.”

That certainly is a fact, as each of us was created to be unique. Each of us is an original piece of art. Although we may have similarities we were not intended to be prints or reproductions of another human.

I try to understand other people whose style and preferences differ from mine, and it’s just plain fun to discover whom people are and what “makes them tick”. Perhaps the best way to get acquainted with another person is by visiting in that individual’s home. I want to believe that most people who spend considerable time in their homes have some pastime they love, some kind of a life within their walls. This life may be reflected via the books on the shelves, the cookbooks and appliances in the kitchen, baskets and tables overloaded with crafting supplies, the presence of houseplants indoors and gardens outside the windows, a dog or cat (or both), and of course a musical instrument—perhaps more than one. The presence of art on the walls and family photos on shelves and tables says a lot—if indeed the walls, shelves, and tables are laden with pictures which are worth a thousand words.

But occasionally when visiting a home I draw the proverbial blank. No books, no projects, no art to reveal a period or style of interest, no messes, no pets, no plants beyond the “tastefully correct” one or two—potted in matching, stylized planters rather than those ice cream buckets and COOL WHIP® containers which frequently hold my overflow of greenery. Not even a happily messy computer corner! Sadly, only one piece of equipment normally characterizes the apparently wasteland homes: that ubiquitous television.

Quite possibly, the homes which appear sterile, sans personality, may not actually be like that at all. When one is a guest, one seldom sees all the nooks and crannies. In the most generic of furniture store homes, there are apt to be hidden away places where the residents read, craft, make music, or whatever. As interested as I am in people and their lifestyles, I certainly don’t want to be crass and ask to see their hidden recesses—the NO ENTRY zones of a house. So I give my host or hostess that benign benefit of the doubt. Certainly they have some life passion, some activity that causes them to jump out of bed each day and say “HELLO, WORLD!” Probably my host and hostess simply have chosen not to divulge exactly whom they are and what they are about.

I accept the preference for anonymity, and I understand that I may be the odd one in today’s world. I LOVE to share. I love to be transparent—an open 1000 page book with loads of information on every page. As much as I love to know, I love to be known. And as far as I know, that’s the way life was originally intended to be! Unlike that pair in the Garden after the fall, I have absolutely no desire to hide from God or anyone else!

Meanwhile, since Joe and I have moved into a four room condo it is easier than ever for visitors to ascertain what we are all about. Our interests pervade every corner of our home, for all to see and enjoy. We have never had more of ourselves on our walls, tables, shelves, and floors—and we are delighted beyond expression with the overflowing abundance of our current time of life. Crowded, YES! Even CLUTTERED—although to me “clutter” bespeaks random chaos, and I will have none of that.

Tidiness and order rule the day, and we can always stuff one more meaningful object into the order of our home. Minimalist gurus (who for some odd reason find no significance in memories manifested all around them, no joy in the colors and textures of a life well-lived) will call us “hoarders”. I call us “LOVERS OF LIFE”! Thus the spinning wheels (which really spin beautiful yarn from luxuriously fleeced sheep’s wool) lurk behind a favorite easy chair, accompanied by baskets of wool and more baskets of yarn—plus needles and other accoutrements of knitting.

My piano hosts an assortment of music books—and musical scores printed out and taped together so that I can play without turning pages. Our kitchen contains the necessaries—toaster, coffee pot, blender, crockpot—plus a representation of bygone eras in funky kitchen collectibles. Our dining area buffet serves as a display area for my soap industry—while hundreds more soaps are stacked in drawers and stored in huge plastic bins under furniture and in closets.

Our bedroom is also my art studio, with a messy table for acrylics, collaging, etc., and another table for watercoloring. Crammed into a bedroom corner is my writing studio with my very own laptop, printer/scanner, and voluminous files (I will always love paper).

My husband’s den is his bit of Heaven on earth with the TV, his own computer/printer/scanner, filing cabinet, posh reclining chair (suitable for snoozing on), and even a daybed for that occasional afternoon “lie down”. Joe keeps his clothes in a dresser and closet in his den, while our enormous bedroom closet houses my clothing plus bins and shelves laden with more soap and somewhere between 600 and 800 paintings. I tell our children they’ll have a post-humous fortune on their hands some day. (Obviously, I’m joking! My art is amateur stuff, paying dividends of endless and infinite fun!)

Both living room and bedroom have indoor garden areas—with tropicals in the east facing patio door, and succulents in our south facing bedroom window. And everywhere are BOOKS, BOOKS, BOOKS. Shelves groan with books, tables support the weight of them, and floors feature book towers in every room.

All of that—including a zest for collecting with a partiality for Victorian era art glass produced by our great American 19th century glass companies, English china, and most anything vintage and funky—goes a long way toward telling our guests whom we are, in this happiest of homes which I’m inviting you to tour with me today!

The above play area is a magnet for our great-grandchildren (16 children, ages 10 and under) who visit whenever they can. And my happy little kitchen beyond. (Actually, it’s Joe’s kitchen for the duration of my post-surgical, arm-in-sling adventure.)

My fiber studio resides behind a living room easy chair. The spinning wheels are not for “show” (although they are very beautiful, made from cherry wood). The spinning wheels spin, and produce luxury yarns for sweaters, scarves, and hats. Years ago, Joe made the pine dry sink for me. It houses my collection of English flow blue china and my Grandma Kate’s English (Aesthetic Period—circa 1885) Indus wedding dishes featuring graceful birds and foliage reminiscent of the British Empire in India.

Most of the baskets in our home are homemade. The one with the coral insert is an Irish potato basket, and below it with gorgeous ultra-marine blue/violet fleece inside is an egg basket—both crafted by moi. The larger basket, in the style of Wisconsin Native Americans’ basketry, was woven by our daughter-in-law, Cheri Been.

One of the many perks in our condo home is the fact that Joe and I each have our very own bathroom. What fun is that! Joe’s is the larger of the two, and it contains a shower which he loves. (I HATE showers, probably because they remind me of that most detested of all scenarios—high school gym class!) I have a tiny bathroom, but it contains a TUB (one of the great loves of my life).

I painted the blotchies on the upper walls, and our grandson, Tyler Been, painted the gorgeous New Mexico-ish red lower walls. This is my Louis L’Amour bathroom—replete with cowboy pictures, and photos of family members on horseback. As you can see on the above left, I have hung some of my own Southwestern art here as well.

Here is another shot of my sweet loo. The Civil War era folding chair is a family heirloom, with needlepoint painstakingly stitched by my mother many decades ago. I treasure the no-longer-available glass ARIZONA TEA® bottles, plus my collections of all things horsey and Western. (The oil painting on the left is not mine. It was a rummage sale prize, unearthed a few years ago.)

The messy inner sanctum of my studio is open to all who venture here, since we always have our company put their wraps on our bed. That’s an old fashioned thing to do, perhaps dating back to when closets were not so prevalent as they are today. To me, wraps on the bed are the most gracious way to go.

No home photo shoot would be complete without a glimpse of my soap. I brag about my soap way too much. It’s excellent, and we have used nothing but my home made soap since 1976. Today my soap is far removed from that crude stuff the pioneers made over an open fire, using fat drippings from their slaughters and kitchen grease cans.

I use the finest vegetable oils (olive being the Lamborghini of oils!) and pure, rendered tallow—all of which I purchase online from COLUMBUS FOODS in Chicago. High grade cosmetic pigments go into the soap for color, plus quality fragrance oils. I have online sources for these ingredients, as well. Soap making is an expensive hobby, well worth ever drop of cash and elbow grease involved! And we saponifiers always have a beautiful gift to offer our family members and friends—the gift of the finest soap.

Old painted furniture, dried hydrangeas, British India style shelves, platters and bowls which don’t fit in cupboards and thus are relegated to the floor, family photos, sparkling glassware including Vaseline glass with glass fruit, cookbooks, a teapot and cups and saucers (just a few of a plethora about the home), and a toy bear (also one of many) co-exist in happy harmony.

Now if you happen to be thinking, “This is really weird!” just remember: “It takes all kinds of people to make a world!”

Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words. So here we are, indoors again. ↑ ↓

Still, we anticipate plenty of outdoor days. My foxgloves, black-eyed Susans, and snapdragons are prevailing—and will until the frost. The mums will hang on longer, maybe for weeks. Yesterday I harvested more lavender, to dry and use in the soap.

In just a little over two months, that faithful sunlight will be heading back our way—and then the days of dreaming. Another garden, another spring!

What a joy, to sit outdoors and spin in the September sunshine! Just as wonderful as spinning by our (electric) fireplace, on a bitter cold winter day. It’s a joy to spin, anywhere at anytime!

Our gardens made it through the drought, and are still blessing us with roses (blooming for the third time around this summer), foxgloves, hydrangeas, black-eyed Susans, echinacea, hostas, dahlias, and those ubiquitous and gorgeous ever-blooming snapdragons. I spin to the ambience of a fresh and colorful garden—replete with the blended fragrance of herbs which thrived in the hot, dry summer: lavender, mint, lemon thyme, sweet basil, oregano, sage, chives, and garlic chives.

I spin to the chirping of birds and the scuttling of chipmunks—one of whom pauses to watch me sometimes. (That must be the little fellow who let me stroke his silky back a few weeks ago.)

I spin! Now I have the most amazing source of dyed roving, ready to spin: Psalm 23 Farm, near Kiel, Wisconsin. The farm belongs to a family from England. One of the daughters, Laura, is in charge of the sheep and wool—and this young lady is an absolute artist at dying and blending colors. With Laura’s (pictured above) combination of Shetland wool and mohair (hair from Angora goats) I’m currently spinning the most incredibly beautiful yarn I’ve ever made in all of my thirty-two years of hand spinning on my trusty wheels.

As I spin, people walk by on our condo community sidewalk—or on the park path just up and over the berm. Occasionally someone will pause and wonder what I am doing. One woman walked by yesterday, turned around to take a second glance, and smiled. She said, “My mother used to do that!”

More often, though, the walkers pass by in their “ingrown toenail world” created by cell phones, a Blackberry®, or whatever. I hear the pedestrians talking, and I see them texting.

Others jog past me, buffeting their bodies—with their hands cupped in front of them, exactly the way groundhogs wear their paws. These hardy individuals look sweaty and miserable. I have never seen a jogger who looked happy, and I always wonder: do they hear the birds, and observe the awesome cloud formations in the sky? Do they even notice the subtle seasonal changes? Do they realize we are now in that poignant, bittersweet month of September—experiencing the dying gasp of summer?

Normally the talkers, texters, and joggers fail to notice a contented old woman sitting on her doorstep—a living anachronism. But I’m not sitting and spinning in order to “be noticed”. I’m sitting and spinning in celebration of an abundant, hands-on life. The yarn is growing on my bobbins, and turning into a sweater on my knitting needles. What a joy!

NOTE: Years ago, when Joe and I toured the back roads of Scotland, I expected to see spinning wheels everywhere. Indeed there were sheep everywhere, but the absence of spinners was a shock to me!

Then we stopped near Perth, to visit the factory which produced the spinning wheels I was selling in my home fiber arts business. The owner of the factory treated us to tea and biscuits (cookies in our language).

Over the refreshments, I asked him if there were any spinners left in Scotland. He explained that, although traditional fiber artists were still spinning in touristy places like the Orkney and Shetland Islands, for the main part women in Scotland were too close to memories of abject poverty. Most of the spinning wheels produced in his factory were sold to America and Australia.

For centuries, the fiber arts filled a need for survival rather than a penchant for pleasure. A sobering thought! How blessed we are in America to have the freedom, leisure time, and prosperity to live a hands-on life by choice!

Everyone knows I love words. I never bothered to talk as a toddler, and until I turned two years old my parents were afraid I’d never talk. Then I turned two, and my parents were suddenly afraid that I’d never stop. I recall my mother telling someone: “Margaret can talk a bird down out of a tree”!

Shades of loquacity notwithstanding, what may be an even stronger trait exists in my DNA—the tactile gene. This gene is an actual hunger at all times of the year. Indeed over the winter holidays, when much of our time is occupied with pleasant social gatherings, the hunger intensifies to a point where I realize I HAVE to take my knitting along to group occasions in order to maintain soul balance—and also that I will not eat all the available goodies. I must have something in my hands.

The hunger continues, rampantly noticeable, throughout the rest of the winter as I dream of the gardening season ahead—when bare hands in earth will be satisfied and filled with rejoicing. Meanwhile, I repot houseplants—taking special care to get some of the soil under my fingernails while indulging my sense of smell in the heady fragrance of green roots in wet earth. I paint with a paintbrush, but relish the traces of alizaron crimson and French ultramarine on my fingers. I stroke my doggie’s back and pat his head, while revelling in the softness of his fur and the smoothness of his velvety ears.

And I knit! Yarn has special appeal as each variety has its own texture. Without looking I can differentiate between silk yarns, factory spun acrylic blends, and those precious yarns which I’ve spun from my own (long ago) sheep. There is a distinct difference in sheep wools: I still have a soft Shetland batt, and some Border Leicester wool which is lustrous and coarse—fine for my sun weathered skin, but frowned upon by many folks who can’t handle a bit of the scratch on their delicate bodies.

The first full blown realization of my abject need for tactile experience came to me over a couple of decades when I frequently attended workshops and conferences. Many of these were focused on writing, and no matter how helpful and informative they were I would come home drained and stressed—wanting to scream but not knowing exactly why. I may have been inspired and challenged, but I also felt kind of “ill”. I was sick of words—and weary of the competition and drivenness commonly exhibited at conventions of writers!

Also in those years, I attended woollie gatherings—spinners’ conventions and knitters’ gatherings. I came home from these occasions with an overflowing cup of contentment and well being! The diverse textures of the subject matter were accompanied by the glorious scent of wool and high stimulation of COLOR—all set against a background of pleasant conversation. To this day I feel healthy and strong in the wake of a spinners’ or knitters’ gathering—where all levels of “art” are welcome and respected, and participants are bonded in their shared love of a hands-on project.

Oddly enough, I can read a fine quality 600 or 700 page book (and often do) without that burnt out feeling that I get from a writers’ gathering. Somehow, the aptly written word fulfills, challenges, soothes, and satisfies while building rather than depleting my soul. So can words spoken by a teacher, preacher, or friend. Quiet, one-on-one conversation with a friend or family member refreshes me. And I can write volumes, with impunity.

It is the cacophony of many competitive people talking that jars me to the core—along with the above mentioned drivenness that motivates (and sadly afflicts!) many writers in a group of their peers. I’m settled and fulfilled whenever I have something in my hands!